Kung Fu Panda 3 (2016)

I've always had a sneaking admiration for Dreamworks' Kung Fu Panda franchise. In a time when CGI animation has become progressively easier and cheaper to produce, these particular films have always seemed defiantly high-budget. Combining a distinctive visual aesthetic with stellar casts and a rare sense of timing, they remain an easy, effortless joy whenever I sit down to watch.

For the benefit of anybody who's been living under a waterfall wrapped in the skin of something dead for the past decade or so, the franchise is set in something approximating feudal China and centres around one Po (Jack Black) a kung fu-obsessed panda raised by noodle bar owner Mr. Ping (James Hong). Fairly early on in the first film, we discover that, chubby and lazy as he is, Po is in fact the Dragon Warrior, a legendary champion destined to... well, no, that's never made entirely clear, but he's definitely destined to do something, probably involving kicking the rear of a snarkier and more traditionally athletic opponent. There's usually a sprinkling of nebulous mysticism involved, which usually tends to amount to you can do anything you want so long as you stay exactly who you are. Do I approve? Not particularly, but there's enough eye and ear candy that it never bothers me all that much.

The third instalment of the series offers more of the same, pretty much. The usual suspects are all present (although I'm not completely sure whether Lucy Liu's Viper ever actually gets a line), joined by Bryan Cranston as Po's biological father and J.K. Simmons as, inevitably, the calmly threatening antagonist who occasionally goes absolutely bloody ballistic. It does, at least, answer one or two key questions - what the Dragon Warrior is, for example, even if it's never made clear precisely what purpose he's supposed to serve barring winning - but I'm pretty sure they'll be able to squeeze out a sequel a few years down the line.

Effortlessly charming, but definitely not one to be thinking about too hard.

Victor Frankenstein (2015)

Apologies for the brief break in service; I'm now gainfully employed on a full-time basis and hopefully I'll be updating this thing at least weekly.

Anyhow, before I get into the nitty gritty of today's film, Victor Frankenstein, I should probably just clarify the following: your enjoyment of this film will be predicated more or less entirely upon your levels of tolerance for James McAvoy's overacting. Can't stand it? Walk away now; there's nothing for you here. If, on the other hand, you rather enjoy it when he gets all earnest and quivery in that slightly deranged way he has when he thinks he's doing serious drama, come in, friends, and read on.

I have to say, Victor Frankenstein contained a little too much quivering even for me. Running an hour and fifty minutes, I feel it could comfortably have lost twenty or even thirty, and nobody would have felt particularly short-changed in the McAvoy emoting department. 

Look, you know what you're getting into when you settle down to watch a pretty, flashy movie about how Dr. Frankenstein met his assistant, Igor, don't you? There'll be attractive costumes, an overly noisy soundtrack, pretentious but punchy dialogue, little to no bloody and gore and no matter how hopeful you might be, the two male leads probably won't get it on at any point. It's a shame, really; Daniel Radcliffe's Igor seems remarkably sane for a former clown/physician, and has the sort of genuinely endearing presence that you can't help thinking would probably have calmed McAvoy's Frankenstein down in the end.

Did I enjoy it? Yes, sort of. Campy but kind of classy, a more judiciously-edited cut could easily become a favourite. Without substance, however, style can only hold my attention for so long, and I won't be in a hurry to come back to this one again.

The Fear of 13 (2015)

I've written about some bad films lately, and some good ones. What I haven't done, however, with the possible exception of Notes on a Scandal, is written about a truly transcendent film. Notes is part of my regular repeat viewing schedule, however, and no matter how great a film is, the visceral impact of it on the second or third go around is never going to be quite the same.

Step forward David Sington's The Fear of 13, then, to remind me of why I love film so much. It's a documentary with a simple enough premise - a condemned man talking to camera, with sporadic illustrative shots - and the hairs on the back of my neck stood on end from the very first line to the very last.

Much credit, of course, has to go to our protagonist, the singularly charismatic Nick Yarris, who moves back and forth in time between his misspent youth and the death row cell to weave an utterly compelling narrative. Yarris earned my sympathy very early on, but never my pity - how could I feel sorry for an individual with such boundless inner strength?

I'm torn, to be honest - I could write pages and pages about this one, but not without spoilers, and Yarris took me on such a powerful emotional journey it leaves me reluctant to offer these. I'll say what I believe is necessary, then -  from the visuals to the sound engineering, the production is superb, and I'm not sure I can remember the last time a film grabbed my attention quite so hard, or so consistently.

Even if documentaries aren't normally your sort of thing, this is something you really do need to experience.

The Master (2012)

Paul Thomas Anderson's The Master has been on my to watch list for a fair few years now, so when, yesterday morning, I was seized by the yen for some proper, grown-up drama, it felt like a natural choice. Anderson has always been a director I've admired rather than enjoyed, but if anything was going to change my mind it'd have to be a character study of a very thinly-veiled L. Ron Hubbard, wouldn't it?

Hubbard, or, err, Lancaster Dodd, is a charismatic leader of what is known, enigmatically, as "The cause" - something about the root of our troubles in this life being injuries we may have sustained in previous ones. We view him through the eyes of one Freddie Quell (Joaquin Phoenix), a drifter who was perhaps damaged by his time serving in the navy during WW2, or who was perhaps damaged all along. Quell first encounters Dodd whilst on the run from an angry mob, but his borderline-poisonous hooch proves to be exactly what the slightly mystical Dodd requires. The pair form an alliance, of sorts, and it is this that forms the meat and bones of the film.

Confession: I could never truly engage with Boogie Nights or There Will be Blood, and I wasn't able to really get my head around The Master either. Anderson tends to deal in the sort of damaged male characters whose internal logic is a million miles from my own, and his films always leave me feeling vaguely baffled about what, if anything, might just have happened. Quell in particular is an erratic individual who seems to have no real sense of self, and as such, he makes for a tricksy narrator, although technically not an unreliable one.

I don't say this to put anybody off - there's a lot to recommend about this one, after all. It looks fantastic, with the lighting and composition lending a sort of nostalgic glamour to every single shot. There are great performances to enjoy, too, with Phoenix and Philip Seymour Hoffman (as Dodd) both excellent. I also thoroughly enjoyed Amy Adams as Dodd's wife - once again, she excels in a film aimed at an adult audience, tempering her fundamental sweetness with something altogether more sinister.

By the time The Master was over, I was aware I'd seen something very good indeed. I just wish I was able to say with any certainty what it was.